


Tease

by Selkie_de_Suzie



Series: All That Jazz [5]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1930's AU, Butterfly Bog AU, Chanteuse Marianne, Fever Dreams, Mob Boss Bog, Mobster AU, Nightclub AU, Sensual Dreams, Unresolved Sexual Tension, butterfly bog, cat Imp, dream fic, gangster au, striptease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had thought dreams were the safest kind of adventures. Then again, that was before a certain Mob Boss pays a visit to her dressing room...</p>
<p>The inventible companion piece to "Siren".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tease

She had left the stage in triumph, a storm of applause and whistles trailing in her wake like she was some goddess carrying destruction with each step. 

Marianne snorted at the frankly dramatic and fantastical turn of her thoughts, but was unable to shake her grin of pleasure, delighted satisfaction making her cheeks bright and her eyes starry as she looked into her dressing room mirror. She loved performing, had always loved it, but to  _be_  an actual success, to have crowds come to see  _her_ –

It was intoxicating as wine, and Marianne was thankful that Prohibition hadn’t yet seen fit to ban such pleasure, even if she was performing in a hot spot of danger. There had been no raids on The Dark Forest so far, but she knew it was only a matter of time –

She snorted, then grabbed her brush to set about the task of combing out her hair. She would worry about it later. She had played with fire and danger this far, and she hadn’t yet been burned. As much as Dawn liked to paint her as perpetually concerned and tense, Marianne was determined to enjoy herself and her newfound freedom, illicit as it was.  _A secret job as a mysterious chanteuse, performing in a nest of sin and booze and dark deeds…_

Marianne smirked, her hazel eyes sparkling at her from her looking glass.  _What an adventure._

But now her song was done, the curtain closed, and she was all too ready to go home and surrender herself to a soft bed and sleep and dreams…

_Dreams…_

Dreams where scarred, rough with long fingers hands held her tenderly, where a voice like rough cashmere and smoke and sin murmured in her ear, where intensely blue eyes flashed to hers, dangerous in how their usual grimness faded into such soft  _yearning_ …

Marianne sat down her brush softly, her breath a bit short, her smile fading.

Dreams were her favorite kind of adventure, because there was no way that they could come true, no way that they could burn you, lie to you, break an already broken heart…

Dreams…dreams were  _safe._

Marianne looked up at her reflection, frowning at the inexplicable glint of anxiety in her eyes. So why was she getting so twisted up about them?

There was a sudden knock at her door, and Marianne started before sighing, exasperated at herself. Look at her, twitchy as a cat. It wouldn’t do to be so jumpy in a club run by the Mob. She turned back to her mirror, grabbing at a tissue to blot her lipstick. “Come in!”

The door opened, and Marianne’s eyebrows shot up when she saw who it was, her hands stilling. “…Mister King. Evening.”

“Evening, Fairfield,” Bog returned easily, making his way into the room. “Heading off?”

She looked back down at her vanity – which was a complete and proper mess, of  _course_  she would only realize that when he was in here - and gave a little exhale of laughter. “Of course. Just like I always do.”

“Aye…” Marianne kept her eyes fixed on her cosmetics as she heard him move closer, the soft scuff of his shoes approaching her. “You did well tonight. Brought in a good crowd.” There was a hint of a smile to his voice. “Just like you always do.”

Marianne flushed pink, biting down on a silly grin of pleasure. The Big Bad Boss wasn’t known for being free and easy with his compliments, so to hear him say that…

“Thank you,” she murmured, looking up at his reflection in her mirror, watching him watch her. “That’s kind of you.”

“I don’t do kind, I do honest,” Bog retorted, but he still had a slant of a grin to his mouth. “And you’re doing a damn fine job.”

Marianne flushed even more and turned to him, crossing her arms in front her rather self-consciously. “I…I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always wanted to perform…”

“I could tell that from the start, when you first came in,” Bog said, shrugging off his jacket before leaning against the edge the dresser opposite of her vanity, facing her still. He groaned slightly as he folded the garment and set it aside. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone so determined to get a gig.”

“Well…I had to convince you, didn’t I? What with how sour you were with Sunny…” Marianne dragged a hand through her brushed locks, feeling rather flustered at the sheer  _ease_  he was exuding. Although…why shouldn’t he? This was  _his_  club, even if he was in  _her_  dressing room. This was his club, and she was his singer, and they were just having a normal conversation…

Bog gave a soft chuckle, his hands going to his tie. “Fair enough. I apologized to Elfsly later, if that makes you feel any better. He did a good job, bringing you in – sorry, do you mind?”

Marianne could only look at him with wide eyes, taking in the sight of him frozen in the act of casually removing his tie, before realizing that she really ought to reply to his amiable enquiry. “Ummm… _no,_  not at…I mean, of…of course not -”

“Much obliged.” Bog gave another soft groan as he removed the garment. “God, but that thing feels like a noose sometimes.” He gave a low chuckle. “Though it be fitting, wouldn’t it? Old criminal like me, getting hanged.”

Marianne was about to give some sort witty retort to that –  _he thought he was old?_  - when Bog suddenly cricked his neck, groaning rich and low at the resulting  _crack_.

Any type of coherent thought fled from Marianne’s mind, but it was the sudden pooling heat in her stomach and groin that had her blanche with horror _. Oh my word, no no no, don’t you **dare** , don’t you dare react like **that**  to him, it was  **just** a neck crack, there was  **nothing** remotely -_

Bog shrugged his suspenders off his shoulders, his eyes sinking closed in relief as he rolled them back, his shirt straining a bit against the broad line of them. “God, that feels good.”

_Looks even better._  Marianne immediately squashed that thought, flushing deep at such sauciness, even though there was no chance of him picking up on her state –

Though she  _wasn’t_  in a state, not at all, she was just talking with her boss –

Her boss who had decided to get  _extremely_ comfortable in front of her –

She should be asking him to stop, asking him to leave –

Oh God in heaven,  _why wasn’t she -?_

“I saw Greensin yesterday,” Bog said casually, fiddling with the buttons to his cufflinks. “He mentioned you.”

Marianne started at that, the usual thrill of dread going through her at any mention of her former fiancé. “He did?”

“Bastard doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” Bog said, still casual, and in that moment Marianne didn’t know if she was blushing from his language or from the fact that he had moved on from his cuffs to the buttons at the collar of his shirt. “You’re well rid of him. I could have him… _removed_ , of course, but it seems you’ve been handling him just fine on your own.”

Marianne nodded dazedly, her voice faint as her wide eyes took in the sure, steady movements of those long fingers as he moved them down the line of buttons, slowly unfastening them one by one. “I…I can take care of myself…”

Bog smirked at her, finishing the last set of buttons. “Aye…that you can. You’re a survivor, Fairfield. A real tough girl.”

He then shrugged, his dress shirt sliding down those scarred arms easily as anything, the wiry muscles of them flexing softly in the dim light of the dressing room, when did it get so dim in here, so hot –

Bog gave a soft grunt as his shirt bunched at his elbows, and he strained as he tried to free himself from it, his spine curving a bit, his undershirt molding across that broad chest, that narrow torso, hard with muscle –

Marianne nearly swayed where she stood, her knees weak, and she frantically gripped the edge of her vanity.  _Oh sweet, merciful heavens_  –

Bog watched her silently, his eyes hooded and the blue of them so vivid as they burned, taking her in, his whole body so languid and yet so intense –

He gave her that slant of a smile, and his voice was a soft, heated thing. “Lend a hand, Tough Girl?”

Marianne’s gulp was quiet and deep, only barely registered over the thunder of her racing heart.  _She…_

She  _shouldn’t_ go to him, she  _shouldn’t_  help him, she  _had_  to be safe because as soon as her hands touched him she would be lost, she would want to savor every scarred-over inch of him, want to feel the rasp of his stubble, make those beautiful blue eyes close in rapture –

Her whole body was aflame, dangerous, undeniable _want_  coursing though her, heating her blood to a feverish pitch -  

_She **shouldn’t**  –_

Her steps were remarkably steady, considering how weak her knees were, but Marianne was anything if not determined. She could do this, this was just her boss, she was just his singer, this was just one of many moments between them and that was all –

She reached him far too quickly it seemed, her nerves still a shivery mess, and slowly extended a hand to him –

Long, rough hands - hands that she knew were powerful and capable of such dangerous, dark things - circled her thin wrists oh-so-gently, and Bog softly pulled them to him, his eyes still on hers.

How she was able to summon up any strength at all to pull off his shirt, she had no idea – she felt melty and hot and feverish with emotion, dizzy with sheer desire –

She was so damn  _close_  to him –

Then Bog guided her hands to his chest, placing them on his undershirt, the fabric warm from his skin, right over his heart.

Marianne could have fainted, her cheeks blazing and her heartbeat thudding hard through her. Apparently, not close enough for him.

She opened her mouth and closed it helplessly, keeping her eyes glued to her hands and in such a conflicted state of want and trepidation she didn’t know  _what_  to do with herself.

There was the softest huff of laughter, and Marianne found herself once more being guided by Bog, her fingers trailing over him as he dragged her hands from over his heart – the beat of it was so  _steady,_  so  _calm,_  whereas hers was about to leap from her chest - softly down his torso. Marianne’s already shaky breath caught as he slid her fingers just under the hem of his undershirt, and sweet Jesus,  _she could feel him,_  feel his scars and his hard muscle and his warm skin that was still so  _soft_  –

_Oh God, please -_

She looked up at him, whether it was to plead for mercy or show him she could stay strong, she didn’t know.

But then she saw his eyes –

And she was lost.

There was no teasing glint or any hint of slyness to those bright blue depths. His eyes –  _eyes that could be so cold and so venomous, eyes that promised danger_ – were hooded and so full of such soft, vulnerable  _yearning_ , such tender _warmth_ , that Marianne could only melt, slumping towards him with a sigh of surrender and want.  _Bog –_

His hands left hers to brush up her arms, gently curl around her face, and Marianne’s eyes fluttered closed, wanting the sight of him leaning in to be the last thing she saw before she _finally_ discovered if those lips of his were as intoxicatingly rough as the rest of him –

_Bog…_

But then her head turned and his  _teeth_  were on her ear, sharp and nibbling, his tongue  _rasping_ over it –

Marianne’s eyes shot open.  _“What the -?!”_

* * *

Marianne jolted up, her breath rushing from her in panicked gasps, her eyes wide and unfocused as she flailed about on her bed.  _He had been about to kiss – but then – biting her ear? -_

There was a little chirp of a purr beside her.

Marianne’s eyes landed on a pure white cat, perched on her pillow, its large black eyes watching her almost merrily. It gave another little chirp and leapt up to lick her nose, its pink little tongue rasping over it.

“OH, YOU FURRY LITTLE  _CREEP!”_  Marianne yelled, grabbing her pillow, frustration fueling her wrath.

The cat gave another little noise – which if she didn’t know any better she would have sworn sounded like a snigger – and darted off her bed in a flash of fur, scampering out of her bedroom at top speed.

“SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOU IN THE ALLY, YOU ROTTEN LITTLE IMP!” Marianne collapsed back onto the remaining mound of pillows, running a hand through her sleep-tangled curls, fuming. Damn Dawn’s soft heart for animals, damn her inability to resist Dawn’s pleading blue eyes –

Blue eyes –

_Blue eyes burning in the dim light, so full such soft yearning –_

Marianne exhaled harshly, gripping her pillow to her.  _A dream._  Just a dream. It could have only been a dream, Bog still didn’t know about her past with Roland, would have  _never_ been so bold or shameless as to start  _stripping_  in front of -

Marianne flashed back to the sight of those broad shoulders, marked with scars, the flex of his wiry muscles as he pulled her close –

She burrowed her face into the plump, downy depths of her pillow, her groan of miserable frustration muffled.  _Just a dream._

She leaned back, hazel eyes blind to the moonlight that fell in pure shafts upon her floor as her mouth twisted into an unhappy grimace. Only in a dream would Big Bad Boss Bog ever be interested in  _her_ , some rich girl playing with fire –

She sighed, disgusted with herself and such pathetic  _longing_ , desires she had tried so long to deny because of the sheer  _impossibility_  of anything coming from it. She shook her head and closed her eyes –

-  _cheekbones that could cut and the sharp curve to his nose, rough stubble and scars, and yet it was his eyes that were the most dangerous thing when she caught them looking at her across the room, through the smoke of the club, soft and yearning and vulnerable, making her breath catch in the middle of her song_  –

Marianne let out a tiny, miserable moan, her head falling once more to her pillow.  _“Goddammit.”_

And she had thought dreams were safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Of *course* Marianne is also beset by fever dreams of the Big Bad Boss Man…
> 
> The result of an utterly delicious prompt/idea by one of my followers on Tumblr. Goodness, but it feels good to write for this AU once more!


End file.
